’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the hizzle
Not a creature was stirring, not even a Meatwhistle.
The booties were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Dane soon would be there.

The grommets were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of six-foot peaks danced in their heads.
And mamma in her Uggs, and I in my slaps,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a focker,
Tore open the shutters and threw up a shaka.

The moon on the breast of the oncoming swell
Gave the lustre of mid-day to offshores from hell.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny queers.

With a little old fish, so lively and sane,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Dane.
More rapid than Fannings his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now Mailman! now, Mike! now, Mark and Shamus!
On, Bagel! On, Lazer®! on, on Trauzersnake and Blasphemous!
To the top of the lip! to the top of the wall!
Now punt away! Punt away! Punt away all!”

Editor’s Note: I do not know Blasphemy Rottmouth well. From his passionate and cryptic comments, it is clear he’s a witty, and perhaps an inherently drunk individual that captures the embodiment of the working-class surfer like no one I have ever seen. This is his dream.

I can haz a dream last night!

I had a dream that one day even the Pipeline Masters, a contest sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, would be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I had a dream that my three little children would one day live under an ASP tent where they would not be judged by the color of their jersey but by the content of their character.

I had a dream that one day every excellent wave would be exalted, and every fist pump and claim was made low, the monotony of Mick Fanning was made plain, and the gays were made straight; and the glory of the Laird was revealed and all flesh saw it together.

I can haz a dream last night!

And that dream is now partially laid bare before your very eyes by the miraculous pairing of Dave Mailman and Peter Mel in the commentary booth for the 2009 Pipeline Masters. What follows is a snippet of that dream:

D.M.: “Well Pete, here we are. Another beautiful day on the North Shoreof Oahu. I can’t get over the irony of those subtle cyan hues swirling about the channel matching my new pair of Santa Cruz corduroy Crocs perfectly. And to top it off, I’m working on my fourth gin and tonic of the morning.”

P.M.: “Fourth? You dainty little twat! I just polished off that case of Fosters in the back. Tastes like rabid dingo jizz, but the buzz is killer. That ridiculously hot broad wearing Chas Smith’s favorite yellow panties is bringing me another during the next break so eat your Frenchy heart out.”

D.M.: “Ummm, that WAS Chas Smith.”

P.M.: “Really? Chas? Dude knows how to tuck like a pro. Trust me, I know. (Licks melted Velveeta cheese from his index finger) But I digress. Let’s not forget that we’ve got some primo swell on tap, Mailman. Six to eight feet and a lumbering offshore breeze dusting the tips of those hucking A-frames – perfect for deciding how many points Mick will win his second championship by. Let’s take a look at who we got bobbing around in the lineup for this heat, shall we?”

D.M.: (shuffles papers around before burying a bubble of flatus in his plastic chair) “According the latest draw, we’re looking at Nathaniel Curran, Ola Eleogram, Dave Wassell, and Joel Parkinson. (Pauses) In other words, Billabong wants Joel to win their flagship event. And speaking of gas, Wassell just cartwheeled down the face of a bomb and got throat-fucked by the reef. Hopefully his Pipeline expertise will help him locate the rest of his teeth.”